


shotgun

by weatheredlaw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholic Character, Character Study, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Permission to speak candidly, sir?"</p><p>"Permission denied, meatsack."</p>
            </blockquote>





	shotgun

**Author's Note:**

> i consider this connected to both [do you wanna talk about it](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2103831) and [lift with your legs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2119926), as all three are canon compliant character studies with a couple episodic codas here and there.

He used to jump out of ships. Free fall thousands of feet. They told him when he started it would be the scariest thing he'd ever do, and back then, Sarge had believed them. He'd been young, he'd been stupid, he'd been eager to do anything they asked him to do, because that's the only good piece of his advice his old man ever gave him -- do as your told. Don't ask questions. Do better. Always do better.

 

 

 

"Get up."

"Dad--"

" _Get. Up._ " 

There's a tone his father has when things are orders and not suggestions. Most everything these days falls under the former. He doesn't know why his mother doesn't say anything, but she's just as good at doing what she's told as her son is, and if anything, he learned from her. He learned almost everything from her. Most importantly of all -- he learned to survive.

His old man taught him to be angry, and frankly, that's what stuck the most. 

 

 

 

Sarge thinks he must hate Grif because Grif reminds him, in the most gut-wrenching, vitrolic way, of himself. Boot to the throat and looking up and saying _fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you_ to everything that was going to try and pull him up. He imagines you could beat Grif close to death and he still wouldn't move. He would lay there and laugh if he had the motivation and you couldn't kill that. There is nothing in Grif that can die because Grif _doesn't care._

Sarge used to be that way. He wonders when he started caring so much. He wonders when that exact moment happened --

(no. he knows. he knows that it was two minutes before he was plummeting through atmosphere and ozone, and he could feel where his back would be bruised, where his CO had kicked him, kicked him right off the ship and said _grow up_ so yeah he knows when it happened he knows.)

"Permission to speak candidly, sir?"

"Permission denied, meatsack."

"This fucking blows." 

He hits him because there's a helmet between the end of his gun and Grif's head. He doesn't have to say out loud that if he could look at Grif's face, he'd hesitate. He'd hesitate and stop and take a step back because he knows he'd see himself. 

He might be grooming Simmons because Simmons has the kind of potential that Sarge wasted, but he's just trying to figure Grif out at this point. 

(what makes you like me, what makes me hate you, what makes me hate you the way i hated myself?)

 

 

 

He puts so much into hating Grif, he doesn't realize the feeling isn't mutual until it's almost too late. Until he's restless and listening to Simmons and Grif while they lay out on the top of the base, pretending to keep watch when they're really trading a flask of the last bit of whiskey left on base. Grif's got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, hair matted down by the helmet he'd tossed off probably the second Sarge wasn't looking.

"I don't hate him," Grif says, with a laugh. "Sarge is hilarious. He's like the angry dad I never had."

"He's--" Simmon's expression must priceless, Sarge can tell that without seeing, because Grif is laughing even harder now. "Dad?"

"Well, yeah. That's what this whole thing is about, isn't it? He's fathering the crap out of us, because he's getting old and lonely and probably has a lot of unresolved daddy issues. Like you."

"Like _you_ , you mean," Simmons mutters.

"Well, sure. I guess. I don't know, I had my mom. She didn't ever talk about my dad, so I never really wondered where he'd gone. Didn't really see a point. Besides, when you're as Catholic as we were you can just use the confessional to work out all your daddy issues. It's been three days since my last confession, I've masturbated twelve times and had sex out of wedlock twice." Simmons laughs at this. "Sarge is a dick, but like. That's what dads do sometimes, isn't it?"

"My dad never did that. My dad just told me to be smarter."

"Bet he shit when you joined the army."

"Yeah. Yeah, he did." 

 

 

 

Sarge never had any children. Never got married. Never did a lot of dating. He suspects if he had, he wouldn't be any happier, or any worse off. He figured out what he wanted to do a long time ago, and then he did it. 

He thinks if he'd had sons, they probably would have ended up like these two. Couple of bickering boys with directly competing agendas -- nothing and everything to prove. 

 

 

 

"My hands are cut up," Grif explains. He's scrabbling with his armor, looking like he kind of wants to cry. Sarge grumbles and takes pity on him, for just a minute, even though not half an hour ago he all but declared the boy dead, suggested they all just move on. 

(he won't say out loud that the idea of grif being gone, being dead, being _absent_ and _missing_ from his life made him feel like he'd been swept below zero, would live the rest of his life with negative numbers hovering in the spaces of his chest.)

"Idiot." Sarge helps him unhook his armor and takes a look at his hands. "Looks pretty bad."

"Yeah, well you were the one who left me fuckin' hang there." Grif's voice is tinged with bitterness, and Sarge thinks he may have taken this whole thing a bit too far. "Sorry, sir," he adds quickly, probably because he'll feel that way the rest of his life. 

"Lemme get a med kit, big dumb baby." Sarge rustles through the gear that's been left in this makeshift base and finds some alcohol and bandages. "This is gonna hurt."

"You operated on me, sir. I'm pretty sure nothing else you ever do to me is gonna hurt." He winces, though, when the alcohol hits his palms, and Sarge huffs, letting it dry before he wraps it quick. 

"Better?"

"Not really. Getting there, I guess." Grif looks bruised and battered and sore, probably the worst he's ever looked. Skinnier, too. A little underfed around the eyes, hair sweeping in front of his face. 

"You need a haircut."

"Yeah, I've really let myself go. In between getting shot at and falling off cliffs and fighting a war with literally no point except to have those _exact_ things happen to me." Grif sighs. "Well. At least you and me finally figured out how to work together, huh Sarge?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I s'pose so."

Grif clenches his hands shut, open. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't do it again. You gave Simmons a damn heartattack."

Grif looks like he's about to call bullshit, but doesn't. He looks at Sarge underneath the hair in his face and grins. "Yeah. Wouldn't wanna push Simmons too far, you know?"

"Exactly." Sarge puts the med kit away and decides he's had enough of this. "Get some rest, dumbass. That's an order."

"Sure thing, Sarge."


End file.
